


Forniphilia

by quailmate



Series: Paraphilia [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chair Porn, Crack, Forniphilia, Humans Turning Into Furniture, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Paraphilias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quailmate/pseuds/quailmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds a suspicious substance tucked into his door handle... so what does he do? He feeds it to John. Because it's late and I'm tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forniphilia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dinoburger](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Dinoburger).



> Hai, Soggypotatoes here with my first Sherlock fanfiction.... I'm not sure if this is a particularly good one to carve my way into the fandom with, but whatever trevor.
> 
> Brief explanation: I have a thing for fetishes. I love them. In fact, I collect them in a notebook. Whenever I hear about one, or meet someone with one I've never heard about before, I write it down. One day I was incredibly bored and decided I'd try writing a fanfiction for each one. This... is going to take a LONG LONG LONG TIME, and the fandoms may vary – though they'll probably be sticking to Sherlock for the main part – but God help me I will finish this.
> 
> So basically, if you have a fetish or know someone with a fetish (it has to be real though), let me know and ill write it C: you can email me if you want, soggypotatoes @ gmail . com
> 
> I begin this expedition with the very first fetish, the one responsible for starting this interest in the first place. Enjoy the crack.
> 
> OH, AND YES, THIS IS CRACK, MINDLESS SLEEP DEPRIVED OOC CRAP THAT IS VERY VERY OOC SO DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT I'M TIRED IT'S LIKE THREE AM ARGH
> 
> Forniphilia: The fetish for humans turning into furniture (Okay, okay, yes I do know what this means, but the wording of it just amused me so...)

It was no use. The powder was completely unlike anything he'd seen before. No amount of testing or observing was revealing its secrets to him. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The substance had appeared to him that morning, a slim package tucked just behind the door handle where it was unlikely to be seen by anyone but him. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be completely bare aside from a small amount of fine white powder. There was nothing that he could possibly use to track it to the original owner – not even a simple smudge. It was infuriatingly perfect.

His mind raced, picking up speed as it went, filtering out fact after fact after mindless fact until, just as he felt his vision beginning to blur from the confusion, he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Something priceless.

Tea. John's tea. It was sitting there, still hot, but untouched. John must have left to go to the toilet, if he was quick enough, he might just be able to--

No. Dangerous. Bad. He couldn't do that to John, the stuff could be poison for all he knew.

But, then again, there simply was no other way to tell what it was... He was sure as long as he only put a little bit in, just so long as it was enough to tell...

Before logic had another chance to speak up, Sherlock's hand darted out and tipped approximately one eighth of the packet into John's tea. He quickly stirred it in with his finger – John wouldn't notice, and he was hardly unsanitary – before setting off to curl up on the sofa, knowing full well that John, once out of the loo, would move him and his tea to the opposite end to join him. After that, he merely had to observe.

The door creaked open, and an unsuspecting John entered the room. Sherlock's jaw tightened at the sound. He felt the familiar feeling of panic fluttering at the edge of his skin, but he pushed it down in favour of the other, purely experimental part of his brain which was buzzing with excitement and listing all the possible results and outcomes with mind shattering speed. He saw John seat himself on his armchair opposite him, and too late realised his eyes had been following his flatemate's every movement from the minute he'd entered the room, and, of course, John noticed. John always noticed – that is, he did if it was to do with Sherlock.

“Something wrong, Sherlock?”

“Bored.” Sherlock shifted his gaze back to the wall opposite. John looked concerned. Was his panic really that obvious...? Well, he did just purposely drug one third of the people in the world that he actually cared about, he guessed it was no surprise that he didn't feel quite as excited as he usually would at the prospect of results. He closed his eyes tight in an attempt to reassure himself that he didn't just put his best friend's life in danger for the sake of experimentation.

"Hmmm, I'm sure we can find you a case soon.” He sipped casually at his tea, his expression distracted and thoughtful. Sherlock wished he knew what John was thinking about. Did he feel a difference yet...? No, of course not, stupid. He'd barely lapped at the beverage, the drug would have had to be pretty powerful to be doing anything particularly noticeable just yet.

Agonisingly slowly, Sherlock watched his friend sip at the tea bit by bit, mouthful by tiny mouthful. For every second he waited, his panic increased as his mind conjured up more and more possibilities. What was he going to do without John? He hadn't even realised the man had become so deeply embedded in his life so easily. He couldn't even remember what it was like, back in his pre-John times. What did he do all day? Who did he talk to? His skull? That lifeless old object sitting in the corner collecting dust? It didn't even make his tea for him. Useless.

The instant the cup was empty, Sherlock leapt to his feet and all but straddled his unsuspecting flatmate, taking the short instant of speechlessness as an opportunity to study John's eyes, the pupils so far unchanged aside from the slight dilation of shock. One hand went for his forehead, the other to the wrist. Temperature as normal, pulse a little slower than usual but could well be due to John's recent non activity.

Realising his moment was over and John was a few milliseconds away from pushing him off and possibly raising his voice several decibels over the socially acceptable limit in order to call him some even less socially acceptable names, Sherlock sat back onto his heels and spoke before his flatmate even had the chance. “John, are you feeling alright? A little light headed maybe? Sick? Feverish? In any danger of hallucination or seemingly random bouts of extreme internal pain any time soon? John? Answer me John!”

 

"Sherlock-- What?!" John was now on his feet, Sherlock having been pushed back enough that he'd almost collided with the coffee table. His eyes had grown wide, and were beginning to dawn with realisation. "I feel fine! What are you...Wait, did you do something to my tea...?"

“A suspicious substance arrived for me in the door handle this morning. I was unsure of its identification and I needed to see if it was dangerous. Do understand John, it's for an experiment.” Sherlock relaxed a little,though still on high alert for any alarming changes. He couldn't afford to let even the slightest tick pass by unnoticed.

John slapped a hand to his forehead.

"So, you thought it was a good idea to put an unknown substance from an unknown person into my tea without my permission and then only to tell me after I had d--” John stopped mid-word, his eyes snapping open and his hand flying to his mouth. His voice had broken off with a sound like wood splitting, eerily inhumane and a sound that chilled Sherlock to the bone. As he watched, John's body rippled with a violent shudder, and he stumbled back until he hit the wall, the teacup slipping from his trembling fingers to shatter against the ground.

“John!” Sherlock rushed over to him, grabbing onto his shoulders to give him extra support. “John, look at me, you--”

There was something wrong. Something so terribly wrong it made the words freeze in his mouth. John's temperature was lowering so fast he could physically feel it dropping, his shoulders turning icy against his hands, and not only in temperature, but in density as well – something which he couldn't even begin to fathom the reasoning behind. No matter how real the evidence was he couldn't bring himself to believe it. The effects were unlike any he had ever seen, in fact, he'd never even heard of these symptoms before. It almost sounded like John's bones were cracking beneath him, one by one, jerking him into position and his voice was becoming hollow and brittle, like he had to work harder to push the words out of his throat.

“Sh-Sherlock...” In fact, they sounded downright painful, solid, so much so he could almost hear it scratching his way up John's throat.

What made the situation just that much worse, however, was the fact that a certain piece of Sherlock's anatomy was waking up further and further with each heart jolting occurrence the drug was producing. One particularly loud crack which sent one of his flatmate's legs nearly flying out from under him caused his pants to tighten considerably, and Sherlock had to bite his tongue to withhold the strangled moan that attempted to fight its way up his throat. He hadn't felt this way since his late teens – his forceful attempts at celibacy had been more than successful – and now, suddenly, the reflexes he had spent full years on diminishing were coming back in full steam.

But why? Out of all the times his libido could have just as easily come back to haunt him, why the hell did it choose this exact moment? And more importantly, what the hell had he just done?

Now, thanks to him, John's body was twitching into positions he knew for a fact were against the laws of anatomy, his arms seeming to extend until they were nearly brushing the ground, even though his body was still held upright. When he looked into his eyes, however, he saw no pain or anguish, only a stark sort of curiosity, mixed with an innocent confusion and then something that was most definitely not innocent at all. The expression was something Sherlock was completely unfamiliar with. Amusement? Too dark. Arousal? Too clear. Want...? No. Just no. The thought of it made his under-the-belt area feel like he was wearing spandex rather than the loose trousers that really, really weren't so loose after all.

“John...” Sherlock was panting now, gripping onto John's hardening shoulder and desperately trying to ignore a certain other something which was hardening in the meantime. “John, can you speak? What do you feel?”

"It's...not as bad as it looks..." John managed, grunting as another crack shifted his form. "I feel a little... stiff... But not as stiff as you..." he smiled.

Sherlock blanched, looking down at the startlingly obvious tent below him with something akin to fascination. Each word that forced itself out of John's mouth only served to send a dizzying wave of heat down his body, enough to make his hairs stand on end. Maybe he was drugged too? An aphrodisiac perhaps? Designed to turn his logical mind into uproar? Because by hell, it was working. It was illogical. It made no sense. It made him want to shove his hands down his pants and jack off right then and there.

And then, John's lips parted, the normal faint sheen of saliva gone, his mouth now as dry as cotton. A strangled moan passed his lips, and to Sherlock's shock, it didn't sound like it was in pain at all. In fact, he sounded like he was enjoying it...

Before he knew what he was doing, his belt was hanging from a loop in the back of his trousers and his fly was undone, one hand making its way into his pants and gripping the bulge he found there. A sigh of relief slipped past his lips, and his face felt like it was about to burn off. His fingers wrapped around his length, tightening to a point that was almost painful. He stayed there a moment, eyes closed, relishing in the feeling he'd not allowed himself to experience since he was twelve after his first wet dream.

His eyes fluttered open, only to be forced shut again when greeted with the sight of John's skin being penetrated from the inside by grotesque looking spikes of wood. There wasn't any blood or anything to indicate pain or torture, only the waves of splinters that seemed to be almost sucking his skin back inside his body like a vacuum. His manhood pulsed in his hand and, agonisingly slowly, he dragged his hand up to the tip, squeezing as tight as he dared before allowing it to run back down to the base, fingers fluttering around his own skin in a way that made him moan in a voice he could barely recognise as his own.

“Sher...”

He looked up to meet John's eyes, which were now completely consumed by that emotion, that completely unidentifiable emotion. His face seemed like it was broadening, stretching like a plasma TV, his shoulders rising in a slow, extensive shrug to meet with his ears which were lengthening at an alarming pace. His thighs, too, were joining together like the seam on a doll, all the way down to the knees where his legs were being pushed even further apart, matching his arms which were now firmly placed on the ground, his hands now being sucked into his wrist in a way that made his nether regions throb.

But he wanted more. His hand just wasn't giving him the friction he oh so desperately needed, no matter how fast he went or how tight his grip is. He just needed more.

And so, without a moment's thought, he pulled himself to his feet from where he'd partially collapsed against the wall and stepped out of his pants. His shirt was suffocatingly hot and irritating, but John was turning fast and his need was too hot, too alive, he couldn't even spare a second to undress properly.

He allowed his hands to run over John's frighteningly solid flesh, the splinters catching at his skin delightfully, tearing a broken moan out of his mouth. He needed more. He needed to feel it. Feel it... there.

((AN: WHAT AM I WRITING))

He began to rut against John's... well, what were previously John's arms. It was painful; oh so deliciously painful. His cock was going to look like a hedgehog by the time he was done, but at that moment the pleasure was fogging up his brain too far to care. He could feel the end coming, a complete and utter loss of control threatening to take over him even more than it already was, causing him to grip at the wood of John's chest, which was now thinning to a point which was far beyond anorexia.

The last remaining pools of logic in his brain had long since evaporated, so much so that Sherlock had all but forgotten it was ever there. He had become an animal, driven by the all too human feelings that he'd deprived himself of for so long. He rutted faster, hands running over John's wood, for there was no flesh left to touch, something that should be more terrifying than arousing, but try as he might, Sherlock could do nothing but touch, feel, experience the overwhelming pleasure he'd battled with for so long.

His orgasm was wrenched out of him with a shout, taking him completely by surprise when John managed one last syllable before his mouth disappeared altogether.

“...lock...”

His world disappeared into a kaleidoscope of swirling colours, his release racking his bones from head to toe, fingers clenched white around the wood that had started this whole thing to begin with. He collapsed bonelessly on the floor, sleep capturing him the instant his head hit the ground.

~-~-~

Mycroft sat back in his chair, his breathing heavy. After a moment of just watching his brother curled around the rather handsome chair that had once been Dr. John Watson, he grabbed a towel he had prepared previously in order to clean up his own release.

The “experiment”, as his brother would probably call it, had been a success. This... admittedly odd paraphilia ran through the family, it seemed. He picked up his phone. Tomorrow, Sherlock would awaken to find an antidote tucked underneath his door handle. He still had seven eighths of the packet left, enough to last him a month or so at this early period. When the two of them had calmed down a little he'd send more, enough to keep them going for a year or so at least.

He had to resist the urge to pat himself on the back. It was a job well done, or so he thought, anyway. Sherlock would probably figure it out someday, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so, so sorry.


End file.
